


Alone

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Strike has a bad afternoon with his leg, but of course, Robin is there to help.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 19
Kudos: 77





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Strike and his leg - not that exciting, but this scene just appeared in my mind. It's been awhile since I wrote Strike, so I might be out of practice with him. :) Rated Teen for language.
> 
> I'm calling this my submission for Whumptober, even though it doesn't fit a specific prompt.

Strike came to a stop, alone on a rainy street, his knee pounding. Only a few more streets to go. 

He turned his coat collar up and dug into his pockets, fumbling for his lighter. A quick burst of flame at the tip of his cigarette, shielded from the drizzle with his cupped hands, and a release of pressure in his chest as the nicotine hit. 

He inhaled, then blew out, resuming his uneven lurch. 

There was a whole different level to navigating the pavement in the rain. Everything was slippery: the entire world beneath his feet seemed precarious and unreliable. Each step felt like playing some kind of sick game of chance with his own balance. Would this one be when his knee slipped and gave out, causing him to stumble and crash? Or would the next one?

A young couple, braving the miserable weather with their small terrier, were coming towards him, gazing into each other’s eyes and clutching expensive coffees. As they approached, the terrier wove suddenly on its leash from left to right, and Strike was forced to take a series of small steps to the side in order not to trip on the leash. His awkward footing caused his prosthetic to land with a wobble, and the sidewalk rushed up at him, the world tilting. 

“ _Fuck’s_ sake.” His left arm wind milled comically in the air, his torso bending forward. The couple stared at him, then hurried past.

Physiotherapy always made his leg feel a bit unsteady afterwards. Today, it felt as if his leg was both phantom affliction and twice the size. 

A man in his sixties jogged briskly by, smiling at Strike. 

“Beautiful weather!” he joked, waving his hand good-naturedly. 

Strike gave him a tight nod, then swung his gaze forward with the grim attitude of a soldier facing a firing squad. Nearly there. 

Pat would have already left for the evening. Barclay was taking a much-needed weekend off, and Robin was tailing Ms. Nosey.

Strike was looking forward to stumbling into an office completely devoid of people. 

Alone.

The scale of his life had always tipped in favour of bachelorhood, but over the past few years, Robin had slid it slowly in the other direction. 

Tonight, though, he was glad that he could simply collapse into his chair and deal with his throbbing stump in blissful solitude. 

A woman in heels strode easily past, carrying bags of shopping and giving Strike a subtle once-over. He continued to look steadily towards the downstairs door to their building. 

Every step was getting harder; he realized his teeth were gritted. The pain had changed from a dull ache to an unpleasant, hot jolt every time his weight landed. The muscles in his good leg were burning with the extra compensation.

So close. 

The fucking stairs would be another matter, but once got through the door he’d at least be out of this gloom.

He crossed the road, stepped carefully up to the pavement, then shuffled to the door, pausing to take a shuddering breath and dig in his pocket for his keys.

Strike debated on another cigarette before taking on the climb up to the office, but decided that the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he’d be able to finally rest.

The stairs loomed. 

“Nothing for it,” he murmured, feeling as if his entire existence had narrowed to this single upward battle. He braced his good leg and swung his bad one out at a compromised angle, throwing it onto the first step and grabbing the hand rail. He lurched upwards, swearing as burning heat raced down his thigh. His prosthetic felt like a fiery torture device, trapping his leg in agony.

The next step wasn’t much better, but he had gained momentum now, forcing his body to continue, cursing under his breath. 

He reached the landing with a last, almighty flounder, and stood at the door, his breathing harsh. He could feel sweat making his shirt stick to his chest. 

Fucking finally. 

He’d grab those case files to work on upstairs and then sit for a good long while. Forget the massage and ice that his physiotherapist had blithely reminded him of. He just needed his chair and a pint.

He swung the office door open. 

Wonderful, empty, silence. 

He closed the door behind him and stepped in, struggling out of his coat and hanging it up. The sight of the worn and comfortable couch, beckoning like a long-lost friend, was too much. He dragged himself over and threw himself onto it gratefully. 

Overwhelming release was swallowed quickly by the relentless pulse of pain in his leg. He dragged a hand down his jaw, deliberating on whether to just have a drink here, instead. His flat might as well be on a distant planet for how far away it seemed.

Strike hesitated, then made a decision. Nobody would know, and he just wanted a moment of relief. He leaned ungracefully forward, unlacing his shoes and pulling them awkwardly off. He stood, limped heavily to the kitchen and grabbed a beer, then swung himself back to the couch. He undid his belt, and with an ungainly shuffle, let his trousers drop to the floor. 

After a bit of mandatory cursing, he pulled his prosthetic off and put it carefully to the side, then leaned back into the cushions, closing his eyes. 

Barely a minute had passed before he heard the sound of the key in the lock. He grabbed his trousers from the floor and threw them over his lap in an unsuccessful attempt to cover his boxers. 

He knew it was her before he saw her standing there, nose pink with the cold, mouth open in a round “O” of astonishment.

“Oh, my god!” Robin was looking at him, cheeks getting positively red, her eyes taking in everything from his bare legs to the beer in his hand.

“I’m so sorry, Cormoran, Ms. Nosey left the office early and went home, so I just came by to - I never would have -”

He held up a hand.

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t be treating the office like my personal bedroom, I just-”

He trailed off, unable to explain why he had been unable to face the trudge up to his flat.

“Physio,” said Robin, in an understanding voice, and smiled warmly.

Strike wasn’t in the mood for warm smiles, or worse, sympathy, or even Robin’s brand of practical understanding. He wanted to be alone. 

“Yeah. Just been.”

She walked in and began taking off her coat. 

“I’ll help.”

“Robin, I’m fucking exhausted.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ll get the ice bag.”

“ _Robin._ ”

“ _Cormoran._ ”

Christ. He watched as Robin stepped briskly to the kitchen, then rummaged around in a drawer before walking back, ice bag in one hand and a bottle of aloe lotion in the other. 

“The last time you came back from your physio appointment, you said that you needed ice and a massage.”

“What I need is a drink.”

He realized that he sounded like a petulant child, and sighed. 

“Sorry. Look. It was a hell of a walk home, and I’m a bit grumpy.”

“Really?” Robin snorted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She pulled up a chair and tugged it so she was sitting across from him. 

“Move your trousers.”

“Robin, you’re not-”

She looked at him, hard. 

“I’m not asking. Somebody once told me that it’s a liability if I don’t take care of myself. Well, I’m throwing those words back at you to consider.”

They stared at each other, then, with a final spike of ill-temper, Strike harrumphed and moved his trousers. A flare of vulnerability shot through him at they both glanced at the raw, red skin of his exposed stump, but he buried it behind an industrious swallow of his beer.

Robin gave him a frank, no-nonsense smile, then squeezed some lotion onto her palm. She rubbed her hands together, then hovered them for just a moment before her cool, sure fingers made contact with the inflamed skin and began to rub gently up his thigh. 

He flinched, both from the shock of her touch and the jolt of pain, and her eyes flew to his. 

“Sorry!”

He shook his head wildly.

“No, you’re all right, it’s just -” he swallowed as she resumed her smooth strokes. “It’s always a bit much, at first,” he finished, and focused on her hands, because it was easier than watching her face.

It felt unreal. Robin’s light, assured massaging was blissfully good; she was manipulating the electric arrows of pain into a honeyed, deep warmth. On the next pass, she dug a bit harder, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back. 

“Christ,” he groaned, unable to stop himself. He let himself float in a pleasurable haze for a few moments, then opened his eyes, chastened.

“Thanks.”

She gave him a look that was definitely smug, but she mercifully stopped short of saying, ‘I told you so.”

Robin continued to work along his muscles in comfortable silence, the pain now mostly smoothed away by her steady hands. Strike didn’t want her to stop. Neither of them had turned on the lights, and night had fallen, the lights of passing cars reflected on the walls. The relaxed atmosphere was changing, shifting and turning intimate.

“This is-” he cleared the gravel from his voice and continued.

“-Nice.”

He had meant what she was doing for his leg, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he wondered if he hadn’t been talking about the fact that she was here, taking care of him. That her quiet, matter-of-fact handling of his pain, not to mention his surly attitude, had soothed more than just his leg.

He flicked his gaze to hers, and was met with blue-grey softness. Her hands had stilled.

There was a moment here, he knew. It hovered between them, shimmering with promise in the silent, dark office. 

A car horn blared, making Robin jump and laugh, and Strike sat back, realizing just then how close they had been to each other. 

She stood, brushing down her skirt. 

“I’m going to make some tea,” she said softly, her face unreadable. She turned, but he caught her wrist.

“Thanks, Robin.”

She smiled, and nodded, and left for the kitchen, flicking the light switch along the way. Strike blinked as light filled the office, and he felt the moment slip from his grasp. 

Still, he thought, as he listened to the sound of Robin humming away and filling the kettle, it was nice not to be alone.


End file.
